


Better Than Easy

by chaotic_nutria



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Anal Play, Anal Sex, Dancing to Billie Holiday, Disassociating During Sex, Enthusiastic Consent, Face-Fucking, Facials, First Dates, M/M, Obvious Scenario, Past Torture, Post-Star Wars: The Force Awakens, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rimming, Rough Oral Sex, Stormpilot, Tale as Old as Time, They're both just such tender little darlings, bottom!poe, top!finn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-17
Updated: 2016-03-17
Packaged: 2018-05-27 07:39:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6275557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chaotic_nutria/pseuds/chaotic_nutria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"This thing with Finn—is it even a thing? A friendship? A platonic romance turned serious? A crush that is, what, probably mutual? This thing with Finn is not fun, not easy, not casual. When your meet cute is on the heels of your torture and at the abrupt end of his career as a trained killing machine, how does fun figure in? There is nothing light, nothing casual about this."</p><p>Poe, smitten, assumes Finn wants to take it slow when they finally hook up. Finn just wants to take charge and get rough. Poe is into it, mostly. They work it out. Also they slow dance to the Galactic equivalent of Billie Holiday so that’s pretty cool.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Better Than Easy

He wants to be cautious. Poe Dameron’s had plenty of lovers—it’s a thing that happens when you fly for a living, or that’s his line, at least. But with everyone before—that whip-smart pilot from Stiletto Squadron with the red beard and the ass that wouldn’t quit, the droid repair specialist who stopped by to fix BB-8 one evening and stayed for two years, countless men in cantinas across the known galaxy, and once, even, a woman, a boyish, badass smuggler back in the Yavin system—it’s always felt easy, casual, like breathing, approached on equal terms. It’s been fun.

This thing with Finn—is it even a thing? A friendship? A platonic romance turned serious? A crush that is, what, probably mutual? This thing with Finn is not fun, not easy, not casual. When your meet cute is on the heels of your torture and at the abrupt end of his career as a trained killing machine; when you crash badly and assume each other dead, mourn hard and wonder why you feel that loss so strongly, only to find each other alive the next day; when battles for the fate of the galaxy, deaths of friends, and a severe lightsaber wound to the back are the stuff of your getting to know each other, how does fun figure in? There is nothing light, nothing casual about this.

But this is better than easy, Poe thinks to himself, absentmindedly etching lines into the soft wooden bar of the D’Qar Base cantina, his fingernail embedded with machine grease. His heart drops into his boots every time he sees Finn—Finn, not the ex-stormtrooper who sprung him from captivity, not the boy hero who fought and nearly died for Rey’s life, but Finn, this man, this power that knocks him down without trying—every time he sees Finn he wants to run and catch him in his arms like he did after the firefight on Takodana. His feelings for Finn are tense and electric, embattled and shy and hot as lava, this sucking sarlacc in his gut. He has it bad. He sips his drink, some nameless ale, flat, bitter. Better than easy. Is that even possible? It’s something new, in any case.

It’s been months since the destruction of the Starkiller Base, and Finn has healed up, mostly. He still stops by the medic for monitoring and won’t start a course of Resistance combat training for another few weeks—if that is what he wants to do—lately spending his days putting together intelligence briefs on First Order operations from memory for General Organa, learning Binary, being a little listless from where Poe stands. The two men keep meaning to get a drink, catch up, see what their brotherly love could be outside of wartime.

That last part has been largely unspoken, only hinted at in looks and touches, a lingering hand on a shoulder when they hug goodbye—and they always hug goodbye—or maybe subtly, in the phrasing of an invitation. Not: “Let’s get a drink,” but: “I’d love to get a drink with you.” And so here Poe is, early to the cantina to calm his nerves. He purposefully chose a seat facing away from the door so he wouldn’t watch it obsessively. He looks down at his handiwork and he realizes he’s drawn Finn’s face.

When Finn does arrive, a lot of that tension falls away, either from the beer or just from Finn’s smile and the warmth in his eyes. Finn gets a beer too, and they shoot the shit for a bit. They get another round. A song comes on that Poe likes, one you can dance to—maybe he just likes that you can dance to it. Finn’s never heard it before, of course.

“Have you ever danced before?” Poe asks, as if it were just a regular question, not one that might lead to their bodies getting closer.

“Can you imagine a stormtrooper dancing?” Finn says with a hint of a blush in his cheeks. Poe, already starting to feel soft and romantic, fights the impulse to say, _I like to imagine_ you _dancing, anyway._

“It’s easy, and this is a good song to learn to.”

They get to their feet at the same time, before Poe can offer his hand in invitation like a storybook prince. A few people are already swaying gently in groups and pairs on the poured concrete of the floor. The song is drum-heavy, syncopated, with some soft reedy instrumental melody lines and a recurring gravelly lilting vocal. Poe means to go through the motions of telling him where and when to step, but Finn’s too quick a study: he wraps arms loosely around Poe’s waist, leaving Poe to drape arms over shoulders, one hand on Finn’s back, on the softness of that leather jacket, the other still holding a slim bottle of beer, and god if Finn isn’t leading.

“You’re pretty good for having never danced before.”

“I never said I hadn’t danced, I just asked if you could imagine it.”

“I guess now I won’t have to.”

They keep dancing like this. Poe shakes his hips for a second in a way that’s meant to be jokey but gets them closer to each other. Finn pulls him in, infinitesimally. But soon, after the next song, and the next, they’re body to body. Poe can’t quite manage the intensity of looking Finn in the eyes, so he rests his head on Finn’s shoulder, still swaying. And he feels Finn’s lips brush his forehead, just briefly, but nothing less than a kiss. The song ends. Poe lifts his head and kisses Finn for real.

“Is this a thing you wanna do here?” Finn says, pulling away and nodding slightly in either direction at the other cantina patrons. He keeps his hands on Poe’s hips, thumbs tucked in the top of his belt.

“Yeah. Yeah, it is.”

“I mean, do they—“

“What, do they know? Do they care?” Poe smirks. He rocks a bit on his heels, but keeps his eyes locked on Finn’s, wanting to reassure him, even as he senses a few raised eyebrows just past the periphery of his sight. “It’s fine. We’re fine.”

But when he rocks back into Finn’s embrace, brushing some stubble against his smooth cheek, drinking him in, he feels a tightness in Finn’s jaw and neck. How foreign this must seem, casually kissing in a bar, to someone fresh out of the lock step fascism of Finn’s stormtrooper past, where nonconformity, much less affection, much less between men, was a punishable offense, Poe guesses. Before Finn, he’d never thought much about how stormtroopers lived or how they suffered, or if they did at all. Now, though, these specifics don’t seem like something to ask about, more something to feel, to listen for in Finn’s body and movements.

Finn is kissing him back, unsure and clumsy but wet and hot, like he is determined to battle through and destroy any fear rattling inside. His determination makes Poe smile against those soft expressive lips.

“Y’know, I just realized, I never did show you my quarters. Either I’ve been out on missions or you’ve been at the medic…” With this he runs a gentle hand down Finn’s back, down the roughly repaired lightsaber burn in that brown leather jacket, Finn’s new armor. “Is that a thing you’d wanna do?”

As they duck out of the cantina’s narrow door, Finn takes Poe’s hand in his.

 

“Look, I appreciate you trying to be gentle with me.” The tone in Finn’s voice calls back to that same raw strength and wild energy it had when they first met, during their mutual escape, a bravery shot through with doubt. He’s been so quiet during his recovery; Poe’s encouraged by his forcefulness, even if it’s in service of pushing him away.

They’re in Poe’s quarters, which are sparse, a bed and some boxes, the rooms of a man who has lost everything he owns a few times over and expects to do so again. When Poe led Finn inside, pulled him in for soft kisses and a hand on his cheek, he pulled back and protested. He continues—

“But I can’t do that right now. There’s a lot I’m trying to figure out—“

“I know, it’s probably a lot at once. I’m sorry, you don’t have to stay if—“

“No, that’s not what I mean. I want to be here. I want you.”

Poe’s heart turns over like an engine at this, reassured. Finn puts a hand on Poe’s ass for emphasis, feeling its curvature for the first time, massaging it slowly at first, testing Poe, kneading, squeezing, getting more familiar as he feels Poe grind and sigh under his touch, as he feels Poe’s cock stirring under the layers of his tunic and pants.

“I’m saying I…I trust you more than anyone,” Finn murmurs, his voice earnest but velvet. “If I was gonna be vulnerable with anyone, it would be you but…when you’re tender like that with me it…I don’t know.” He pauses here, his voice barely catching on the outer edge of that vulnerability. But Poe hears what’s not being said, mentally dives into that depth of pain like he’s hurtling down some narrow crevice in a First Order base, X-Wing agile, sure and hyper-aware.

He gets the vague and jagged outlines of a life: Finn stolen as a child from a family he barely remembers, programmed to kill without mercy, conflicted and ashamed of an emerging conscience; Finn seeing fellow soldiers die, expected to commit atrocities at gunpoint, and then, months ago, escaping, leaving everything he knew for this strange green world of noble cooperation and “Hey, buddy!” camaraderie.

“There’s a lot I don’t want to…think about, I guess…not right now at least. I can’t open up like that yet,” Finn says. Poe lifts his head off of Finn’s shoulder to gaze in his eyes again, though it’s dark in the room, moonlit. He wants to hold him, to rub some green, sweet-dank-smelling salve across the lightsaber scar on his back and everywhere. He wants his touch to smooth out the wrinkles and nicks in Finn’s past. And some small, clear thought in Poe’s head adds, before he can shake it away: He wants to do this for himself, too; he wants to tend to Finn that he might get some tending back, that his own hurts might be healed. But this isn’t what Finn wants, or not how he wants it. And Poe, pilot by lineage, ever-adaptable, is curious to see where this course might lead.

“What do you want to do?” Poe asks, and then into Finn’s ear, “I want to do whatever you feel comfortable with”—and with a laugh, “and I swear that’s the last gentle thing I’ll say, if you’re saying you want to be rough.”

“I want to be rough.” Finn rejoins just after, taking off the pilot’s belt in a fluid motion.

Poe gets another insistent kiss, teeth tugging at lips, tongues hitting each other with a searing thrill—and how does Finn’s mouth taste so amazing? Now Poe murmurs, in a growl powered by Finn’s capable hands on his ass, exploring his cleft from outside his suddenly tight work pants:

“I’ll follow your lead, if that’s what you want. Show me what you want, Finn,” saying his name like a term of endearment, the nickname given in love that it is, like a challenge, like an oath.

 

Soon, a ragged moan turns into a wry cackle.

“What?” Finn asks, slowing his hand on Poe’s cock and biting a faded scar on his neck, some old battle wound. They're standing, Poe's naked back singing against the cool metal of Finn's jacket zipper and the heat of his cock through his pants.

“Sorry, I guess I assumed you’d be less, aaah, experienced,” Poe sighs against Finn’s hands and teeth. “And it seems like you know what you’re doing.”

“What else do you think there is to do for fun on a Destroyer?” Finn laughs darkly. “In the barracks at night? I’ve seen things that would make a Rodian blush.”

“Seen things and done things?”

“Maybe.”

He pushes Poe forward with a spin to his shove, and Poe, agile, lands sitting on his bed with a loud squeak of the mattress and a smirk on his face. He moves his hand to jerk himself with a quick wrist, the way he does alone. Finn undresses in front of him with utilitarian military speed. Poe bites his lip at the sight, his first of Finn naked: that broad expanse of Finn’s chest, taut muscles, impossibly soft skin, cock beautiful enough to make Poe gnaw his lip harder.

“Fuck,” Poe hisses in a low exhale. He plants his hands on either side of himself, preparing to push off the mattress and onto his knees, a wholly automatic response at the sight of Finn’s body, but he finds Finn in front of him before he can get off the bed. With one hand on Poe’s shoulder and one in a tangle of his dark brown hair, Finn guides Poe’s mouth just centimeters from his cock, the head a deep dusty rose color, and holds it there.

Poe strains his lips and tongue to touch him, pulling against Finn’s grasp. He inhales, making unthinking throaty whimpers until Finn eases his grip. Again he dives, for real this time, his throat open and slick with desire, taking Finn as deep as he can, then moving back up slow, tongue flitting along the raphe, lips cresting cock head, and then plunging back down, taking more now, and again, and more, again, more.

Now Finn’s moaning, a grumbling, revving sound different from his tenor speaking voice. It surprises Poe, goads him on, the TIE fighter on his tail forcing him into wild maneuvers. He is flying, he is chasing: he is living for Finn’s tough and rhythmic grip on his curls. He takes more of Finn down his throat, more of anyone than he has in a while, until he gags, sputtering spit from the sides of his mouth.

Finn’s moan eases to a smooth low purr as he fucks Poe’s face, eyes closed, smile serene, and it’s great, for Poe, until suddenly, then, it isn’t. He can’t catch his breath with the cock at his tonsils and then he can’t breathe at all and he’s somewhere else, and all he can think of is Kylo Ren, dented mask and a black glove at Poe’s throat, constricting without touching, hollow agony coursing up Poe’s body while he’s strapped to the clammy metal of an interrogation chair four months ago to the day.

Poe lifts a heavy hand and pushes gently at Finn’s hip twice with the butt of his palm, a gesture of “stop” that Finn interprets right through instinct or experience. And then, to Poe’s surprise, Finn is sitting on the bed beside him, an arm around his hunched shoulders, a hand wiping spit and tears—tears from reflex? Poe hopes, sheepish—from his face.

“How are you feeling?” Finn asks. “It seemed like you spaced out there for a second.”

“Ah, damn, I don’t know what happened,” Poe laughs, though he can hear an emptiness in it. He sniffs, refocuses his eyes, turns to Finn. “It was good—I mean, really good—but I just got…caught up in some stuff.” He won’t say words like Destroyer, First Order, Kylo Ren, he tells himself, doesn’t want to set Finn off too, he won’t—and he notices how calm and strong Finn’s hands are, one rubbing lazy circles on his shoulder blade, the other resting on his knee with a surprising heft. He feels his breathing normalize.

“Do you need to quit?” Finn asks. “We can stop if you want to stop,” the boyish tone in his voice back, and it strikes Poe just how young Finn is, and with a real smile he feels himself coming back, back to his sparse room, back to this beautiful good man who cares about him and maybe loves him. And feeling this man’s body clutched protectively around his, smelling his sharp sweat and sex waiting beside him, waiting on his yes or no, is getting him hard again in spite of himself. He collapses back on the bed with a sigh, taking Finn down with him. He wipes the last wetness from his eyes and gives Finn a quick kiss of reassurance on the lips.

“No, I wanna keep going. Just, maybe no throat stuff for a bit, on my end.”

“Roger Black Leader,” Finn says with a wink that could be sarcastic or knowing if he weren’t such an earnest person. They kiss again in a way that jumps quickly from sweet to hungry. Lying in bed together now—the very fact of it, Finn, in his bed, thrills Poe to his fingertips—they let hands range across each other’s bodies freely, Finn’s palms splaying over Poe’s chest and testing nipples, Poe catching fingers in that scrub of hair above Finn’s cock.

“Are we still doing what I want?”

“Yeah?” Poe responds coyly, his voice catching. “I, yeah, ah, no throat stuff, and if you could not hold me down either...”

“Of course,” Finn says, with a kiss to Poe’s right nipple that sends his eyes rolling back. “Here, get on your belly.” Poe complies with a faux lazy rolling motion. “Now pull your knees in. And arch your back low.” Poe complies again, his cock at attention and brushing the sheets below him. He waits, the hum of anticipation continuing to calm him down and ring through his body.

“What are you doing, buddy?”

“I've just wanted to see you like this for a long time.”

Poe furrows the pillow with his face, blushing, he’s sure, and arches his spine a bit more. He feels a hand tripping down the muscles in is back before resting on a cheek, then fingers alternately tracing, raking, gripping him. With his other hand, Finn drags a finger down the line of Poe’s cleft, eliciting a gasp. And then Poe feels what can only be Finn’s lips, the softest kiss, the most delicate pressure, on the meat of his left cheek, and he raises into the warmth.

“Can I kiss you here, like this?” Finn asks.

“Yes,” Poe says back in a whisper, like it warrants reverence. And it goes on like this: Finn’s hot mouth hovering, asking, and at Poe’s whispered “yes” working closer toward what Poe suddenly wants most. The kisses become increasingly heavy, mouth hungry on flesh, matting soft dark hair with its wetness, until Finn’s hands spread Poe’s buttocks apart and, with a cataract of yesses in his ears, he brings his lips and tongue to Poe’s asshole.

Poe feels hit with high voltage, vulnerable, open, filthy, wild. Finn swirls and dips his tongue in and with each lap and tug at that taut ring Poe feels some tension disperse and some joy expand in him. He gives a sighing moan, grips sheets, melts into the force of Finn’s persistent tongue, and lips, and hands, one now reaching around Poe’s thighs to grip his cock, pumping it slowly, spit-slicked, doing what must be a thing with his thumb that Poe makes a note to remember. After several minutes Finn’s mouth moves lower, panting, resting, giving sloppy licks and kisses down Poe’s sack and up and down his inner thighs.

“Mmmm, I want you in me,” Poe mumbles into the pillow, unsure if he’s saying it aloud.

“Are you sure?”

“Mmmph, fuck, yes, please—”

“Do you want some fingers first?”

“Just for a sec, maybe,” and as he feels the first press against and easily into him: “Fucking damn it Finn, yeah.”

“Do you have any—“

“Mmph, yeah, some veeji oil on the nightstand—ah, keep doing that though.”

As his nose picks up the sticky fruit notes of the lube in the general scent of their bodies together, Finn enters him in earnest, with one finger and quickly two, making exploratory spiraling motions against that slick hot interior, pulling out moans and whimpers with each flex and clutch of his knuckles. Finn finds that spot, hitting hard at first, making Poe crumple further into the pillow, nothing but high whined yesses and a crackling nervous system. But then Finn eases off, tracing little circles around it, making Poe feel both like he’s never been more _in_ his body and like he’s spinning off untethered into deep space.

Finn gets slow and subtle with his touch. He shifts, still on his knees but lower now, his legs snug on either side of Poe’s, his free arm bracing his weight, his forehead and hot breath settling on the small of Poe’s back. That breath, and that beat of Finn’s pulse playing off the increasing speed of the rhythm of his moving hand: this thing that is so simple feels so right, familiar—and not because Poe’s had other lovers who’ve hit his prostate with a certain amount of skill, he has—but, rather, Finn feels so right; this instant-feeling sureness, trust, comfort, tension, need, and love, revelatory love washing over Poe in waves.

“Keep at it, keep at it, keep at it, keep at it,” Poe finds himself chanting, mouth up from the pillow now, leaning his weight on his forearms, rocking his hips against Finn’s quick fingers. Now Finn’s kneeling again, upright, free hand guiding Poe’s ass in its rocking, cock jutting out and grazing Poe’s balls with each stroke of Poe’s body. He adds a third finger and Poe calls out, making Finn chuckle low. Poe readjusts his breath, sighing into that elastic expansive feeling, deliciously open, flexing against the comforting otherness that feels so great inside him.

And now it’s gone, and Poe smells the sweet veeji oil again, drips at the smell of it, and feels Finn’s cock nudge at the bloom of his asshole with a rich, heady immediacy. They both wait, breathing for a moment, until Poe pushes into that feeling before Finn can ask if he wants it too. Their moans are loud, matching, simultaneous—easing into a hot spring kind of moans. Finn takes Poe’s hips in his hands like the yoke of a ship, rubbing out hidden stresses in joints with his thumbs, quick study to the controls of a new craft. Poe furrows the pillow again, moving a hand to his own cock.

“How do you want me to fuck you?” Finn asks, moving only slightly. Poe groans in response, language failing him.

“However you want—hard, fast…” and heavy-lidded, he looks over his shoulder to catch Finn’s sparkling gaze, to see his cheekbones glistening with sweat and stray lube, his lips ruddy and parted. “You just…mmm…”

“Just let me know, flyboy.”

“I…damn it Finn, you feel so fucking good.”

It’s slow to start, but strong, this almost hydraulic motion, cyclical with an anticipation of speed. The fit of them together feels transcendent to Poe. The pitch of Finn’s cock hitting him just right, its girth substantial but not a negative stress—and in the midst of each thrust, Finn takes an extra beat to brush against that spot. They’re a complex music, Poe calling out loud and Finn back on that low purring rumble, skin to skin collisions not quite slapping yet, but like a slow clap, soft flesh meeting and parting like a kiss.

When it does get fast, Poe is somewhere else again, this time in pleasure. He keeps calling out, saying things that probably make sense, who’s to say, but each time Finn’s length fills him this intense and specific memory wells up, the way a taste or smell will suggest some obscure moment in one’s past, even if the taste itself is new. That full feeling, plus Finn’s sweat and the rich fruit smell of the lube, plus the raw and heightened emotional lightning storm of finally—god, finally—getting fucked by this man he’s wanted since the moment he met him: with each quick thrust he remembers with a visceral freshness being a young man, maybe 20, on Yavin 4 in an X-Wing he’d rebuilt himself. He had been flying so low, so close over the rainforest canopy that he had to clear some vines from the laser cannons when got back to town. That rush of being in the interstice of trees and sky, machine grease and the fresh leather smell of his new flight jacket dense about him in the cockpit—he had landed on a sloped grassy mountainside, watched ungulates graze, eaten berries and dried meat, looked out on his home planet and out into the sky and was awe-struck, had never felt so at peace, so completely right.

“Right there,” he hears himself repeating, almost sobbing, his voice sawing through the words, and, “I’m—oh!” as he comes heavy into his own hand. Finn is close, too, he can feel it, and when Finn asks, “Where do you want me?” Poe replies, in a voice more steady and sexy that he thought he could muster, “I wanna taste you.”

Finn is out of him, flipping him, over his body with what seems like effortlessness through Poe’s dreamy haze. Finn’s square, calloused hand, thumb brushing his flushed velvet head with each stroke, those cheekbones, those eyes, soft and trembling—the sight of it all sets Poe muttering encouragement, telling him how beautiful he looks, how good he felt.

When Finn does come, it’s a salt creamy coconut water taste in and across his lips, eyelashes, hair. Sleep seems like the thing immediately, and he drifts off to Finn above him, kissing the come off his face and licking what he can from Poe’s quieted cock and fingertips like it’s honey.

**Author's Note:**

> Sappy moral-of-the-story: trauma effects everyone differently, but regardless of your limits or the stuff you're dealing with you deserve to be, and can be, loved and heard and able to feel good, whatever that looks like for you. 
> 
> Just a little dose of positive affirmation to go with your overwrought neo-Proustian emo space porn.


End file.
